Salt and pepper purled carpetssmelled of sultry dandelion fluff,the sun illuminating the cinnamonlincoln-log blocks resting on the dove-threaded swells.(Is there peace in a metric rectangle, perched on the clashing seas?)

The hickory seeds would take to their feathersas we kicked through their sunny fluff,I'd see the full-seeded flower head as a globewhere the equidistant inhabitants raised their wizened brows in triumph.(How long ago did you realize the world could never be that sage?)

Those dandelions are stitched into the foreground of my memory,though even then I knewwhy the fences wore obsidian arrows:the stones in this meadow were graves.(Did you know any of the dead, or are you searching again for kinder strangers?)

We searched for the most distant date, one eights, one sevens, last two digits trailing...raised DODs chipped and worn nearly away under so many skies.I alone imagine the azure and cerulean filling your eyes,before the clouds settled over your hair;a study in charcoal on waterstained parchment. (Does rain still fall from beneath the southern cross, or did precipitation vanish with Polaris?)

I used to navigate those stars with you. The control room was grooved and pillowed, the graphite-scalloped carpeta star-pricked voidlurking with giant extraterrestrial octopi; conqured above the bookshelvesas cinnamon-dusted scrollstrailed behind our spaceshiplike commet tails.

(You wrote a poem of hope when I was a baby,can you still see it,or did its carved limestone wingsplummet beyond your new horizon?)

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sprouted

FireGlassA carefully blown sculpture emerges from the flames.It’s glass body smooth to the touch.It’s small chin delicate and graceful.Small eyes stare out into the worldGlass eyesUnblinking as they peer into your soul.A symbol of peace.Fragile like peace.Set lovingly upon a standFor all the world to see.Until it falls